CONNERS, MARGARET EVANGELINE

[margaret]

MARARET
EVANGELINE
CONNERS!
'perhaps the quietest of them all will have the most expectational adventure'
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HEY THERE! SO, TELL US ABOUT YOU ... LET'S START OFF WITH THE BASICS. WHAT DO WE NEED TO KNOW?

”Uhm, hi. Well, my name is Margaret Conners. My friends usually call me Maggie, but I’m not too uhm .. social, so I guess not a lot of people actually call me Maggie then. I was named after my mom’s mom. I’m actually really glad I was named after her, since I spent a lot of time with her as a kid. My middle name is Evangeline, mouthful I know, and that was from my dad’s mom. But I didn’t really know her that well. Right. So. I’m 20 years old. I uhm I’m straight. At least, in theory. So it’s kinda awkward but I’ve never been anywhere close to being in a romantic relationship with anyone, but I am really attracted to guys. Or, I guess, the guys in my head. Kinda. Also I'm not entirely sure what you mean by "alliance"? Uhm, you're not talking about some pop culture reference are you? Like American Idol? Because I really don't watch a lot of television. Mainly none. Right. Uhm, I think that’s it?”

SO, A LITTLE BIRDY TOLD ME THAT YOU ARE GORGEOUS. DESCRIBE YOURSELF.

“Right. So, me. Okay. First off, a few people have told me I look a lot like Jacquelyn Jablonski and I can kinda see it – but she’s definitely more …. I guess Hollywood or something. Perhaps an advanced version of me? Righr. Well, I’m a brunette. I actually really like my hair – I’m going to keep it long because I cut it short once and I was so upset about it I promised never to do it again. Generally, my hair is pretty straight but sometimes it can get a bit wavy at the ends. I’m not picky about hairstyles – I like it down, braided, up – anything. I think I put more effort into my hair than anything else. Right, so my eyes are pretty boring – they’re brown. Just .. plain brown. I do have freckles though, and sometimes I like them. But most of the time I cover them up with make up or something. My nose is actually kinda big and I’m not a fan of it. It’s just really wide at the base and ugh yeah, not a fan. Lastly for my face, my lips are rather big too. Sometimes I feel like it can give me a plastic look, but when you take my nose into consideration, I don’t think anyone really notices my lips.

My body type is … uh, petite? I think that’s the word. I’m only 5’2” so I’m a little shorter than average. Well, compared to my family – my mom and gran are around 5’9”. I’m not skinny, but not heavy either – I’m an extremely picky eater, so I don’t gain weight as easily, but I think I look bigger because I’m on the short side. Honestly, I don’t know how much I weight – I really don’t care about that. I mean, I do, to some degree – doesn’t every woman? But I don’t base it off a number, I base it off being naked in front of a mirror. I don’t have any tattoos – I’m rather terrified of needles, actually. But I do have a scar on my back. It’s around five inches long, just below my right shoulder blade angling towards the center of my back. It’s from a really weird … incident when I was younger.

My style is … nonexistent. Honestly. I like really neutral colors – like blues or greys, and blacks and browns. Sometimes I really want to wear bright colors (my room is actually pretty eccentric and bright) but I just feel really uncomfortable when I wear it. I guess it’s just drawing too much attention to me. But anyway, so my style is rather neutral and I’m definitely not fashion forward. I’m not extremely shy about my body – I’ll wear a tank top or shorts, but I definitely don’t do it often. I love my hoodies and sweat pants and even though everyone says that, it’s true. "

I'M SURE YOUR PERSONALITY IS SOMETHING ELSE COMPLETELY. TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF, WE WANT TO KNOW YOU BETTER!

“Oh, gosh. Okay. Me. I think a good word to describe me would be timid. I don’t like approaching people, I feel really uncomfortable when people approach me – I feel like they have some underlying motive. Honestly, I guess you could say I’m a bit paranoid too. But, I try to be really nice to my friends – the few that I’ve had – and I like doing things for people. I guess I get it from living and helping with my gran, but I enjoy … uhm “mothering” I guess you can call it. Overall I think I’m just really quiet. I enjoy taking time for myself, but with family .. or even really close friends I tend to be a little … less quiet. I honestly just like sitting back and taking in the scenery, so to speak. I enjoy listening to people’s lives and adventures and what they love. I’m really bad about not talking too much, so I do enjoy people who talk a whole lot. Uhm… Er -Sorry, sorry. I’m really bad about talking about myself. Honestly, I’m just a plain girl, so there’s nothing incredibly special about me. I try to be very positive about life. I just want everyone to be happy, to be honest. I don’t really mind if people have different opinions than me. That’s their business, isn’t it? But … I do believe in some type of higher power. I’m not really sure because I feel like I can’t define it. I’m a big believer in karma, though, that’s the only definite answer I’ve got about life.

Right, anyway. I like animals, history, baths, glitter and baking. I don’t really like the dark, television, loud noises, sports and many foods. I’m not sure about my strengths, but I guess I could say I’m helpful, I have a good memory and I just want to be a good person. My weaknesses are my paranoia, my lack of confrontation and my social skills. I do have one secret, though, and … well. I do remember some details about the incident that gave me the scar on my back. I didn’t tell anyone because I was, and still am, terrified people would not believe me. But the guy’s eyes … they were black. Lastly, this is embarrassing, but my desire would be to find my soul mate. A lot of people don’t believe in them, and I’m losing my belief in them. But I think it’s just human nature, you know, to find someone to love you like a soul mate would. I guess that’s why they call it a desire, you know – it most likely won’t happen. What with me and my social skills, the chances are incredibly limited.

Sorry – oh. What war are you referring to? Is it the Iraq war? Because, to be honest, I don’t feel comfortable talking about politics. I understand both sides, but I guess I lean more towards the “leave people alone” category. But I get why, you know."

I WOULD LOVE TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR HISTORY ... I'M SURE IT WILL BE INTRUIGING!

"My mother, Jane Conners, met my father, George Anderson, when they were fifteen. Their story is the typical tragic love story of teenagers. She was not from anything wealthy – her family had been farmers for years, and when economic hardship fell on them, they moved to the city in an attempt to find jobs. Her three older brothers, mother and father all worked in various manufacturing plants. My father was the opposite – his family was from wealth so extreme it seemed outlandish. They owned various businesses – legal and illegal - within the city and reaped the benefits accordingly. My mother had a thick rural accent, my father a charming musical voice. They met by chance, when my mother was working long hours at a local coffee shop and my father came in with his group of obnoxious friends. Their love was fast and fleeting. After a whirlwind of secretive outings, of stolen kisses and private locations, my mother became pregnant at 16. My father, naïve and young, ran away with my mother days after she shared the news with him.

Their adventure did not last long. Alone, broke, and scared, my parents attempted to live in another city. But my father was not use to hard labor, not use to a minimal way of life, and my mother was not use to having to baby what she imagined to be a grown man, along with the one in her belly. I was born six months after their escape, and six months after I was born, my father abandoned my mother. My mother claims I was a sweet child, very quiet and timid as I am now, but I do not believe her. Had her words been true, I doubt my father would have left as he did. I fear that it was me, even though I understand as a baby I could not help it, that made him leave. My mother claims it was his mindset, but I have always had trouble believing her.

My mother went back to her home but the damage had already been done. My father refused to house her, her older brothers refused to look at her. But my gran saved us – something I am grateful for until this day. My gran ended up leaving her husband, and her other children to help my mother and me. She decided against speaking with her husband, but still kept contact with my uncles frequently. Over the years as I grew, they became more and more frequent in my life.

My life growing up was uneventful, to be honest. We lived in a dingy apartment above a butcher shop on the poorer side of town, and both my mother and gran worked most hours of the day. I went to school, and then home – usually I was able to bring home library books, so I kept mostly to myself and out of the way. As the years passed, my mother slowly started lose herself – to drugs, to the world, to herself, I haven’t a clue. But as time went, she did too. I last saw her when I was perhaps 10, as I helped her from the apartment door where she had collapsed into her bed. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. My gran told me she had passed, but I knew better – she had left. To where and to what, I have no clue, but it was the second person I felt as though I had driven away.

As unorthodox as it sounds, I had been keeping tabs on my father ever since I learned who he was. He was frequently in the newspapers – business sections, social sections (with his new wealthy wife and his new better twin boys). My gran would get mad at me every time I came home with a newspaper and would throw it out. Finally, a few years after my mother died – left – I got the itch to actually see him in person. I should have told my gran, I should have had realistic expectations – but when you’re fourteen and your life consists of a dirty apartment, a couple of books and a lack of social skills, you tend to dream. In was a disaster.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my new dress as I stood in front of the tall, looming building. I had never really ventured into this part of the city before – I tended to stick to the low, gloomy buildings of my neighborhood. If I were honest with myself, I would say that I was afraid of this pristine environment, so different from my home. Nervously, I toyed with my hair at my waist. I had tried to look nice – a new dress from a garage sale the neighbor was having, the nicest pair of flats that I owned (I hoped no one would see the tape holding the sole to the shoe) and I had put my hair up in a delicate, twisting braid (it had taken two hours and some numb arms). But this environment made me feel so alien and out of my element.

A body bumped my shoulder and I stepped back, trying to hold back the gasp of surprise as I came back to reality. The sidewalk was filling rapidly with business people and my window of opportunity was closing. I had had the owner of the butcher shop call Mr. Anderson’s building, acting as though he wanted to set an appointment to figure out what time he left for lunch. The butcher, the poor old man (who I had a hunch had a bit of a crush on my gran) was sympathetic, and called so many times I was afraid they might send the police over to charge him for stalking. But Walter, the butcher, had gotten the information I needed.

I wiped my palms on my dress again as people poured out of the building in front of me. I glanced quickly at the worn watch at my wrist and my heart leapt into my throat when I realized it was almost time. I honestly had no idea if Mr. Anderson left the building for lunch, nor when (if he did), as he had a two hour window. But I figured it was worth a shot. Unfortunately, this meant I was skipping school and I prayed they would not call gran and tell her I was no present. She would bury me six feet under if she learned what I was doing.

Achingly slow minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty-five. Fifty. I wanted to stay strong, but my hope was dwindling. Maybe he had someone bring him his lunch. Maybe he had a separate entrance to the building (he owned it after all). Just as the desperation was settling thick in my stomach, he walked through the door. He was staring at his phone, barking orders at the figure scrambling next to him as he power walked through the sliding doors. The doorman immediately tipped his hat and stuttered a greeting, but Mr. Anderson – my father – walked on as if the wind hadn’t even moved. My heart sputtered in my throat and I wanted to simply run away and never do this or think of this again but I knew, I knew this was my only chance. I had to be strong – perhaps just this one time. But I had to.

Before my brain could process it I was hustling through the streets after the figure of my father, his companion had since abandoned him. I found myself picking up a light run and my voice carrying “Mr. Anderson!”

He turned, a scowl on his face as he took in my appearance. He merely looked down his nose at me (he hadn’t looked this tall in the pictures).

My throat seized and my brain faltered as I stood there, staring at this man – my father – who I had only seen in magazines. Who I had pictured for years and years. I had his eyes, and perhaps a softer version of his chin but his hair and skin were quiet different. His nose was not as prominent as mine –I had obviously gotten hat and the freckles from my mother. “I – Uhm, I –“ my voice continued to stutter as my mind reeled with possibilities. What was I suppose to say?

“Look,” He said, already putting his attention back into his phone as it chimed in his hand “If you’re a reporter, fuck off. If you’re wanting to press a lawsuit, get a lawyer. And if we’ve fucked and you’re pregnant – it’s not my problem.”

Dumbfounded, I stood there, my jaw slack as I stared up at him in absolute horror. Who was this person? Was he really my father? Could I have possibly heard my mother wrong? Had she gotten his name wrong? I could not be related to this man. Sure, my mother was not the sweetest person – but this, this was not possible.

He was already striding away when I called out “No – No! I’m – I’m your daughter.”

Without blinking he turned around, phone still his attention and said, “No, you’re not. Impossible. Now stop trying to steal my money and get the fuck out of my face.”

I think my gran knew what I had done (partly from knowing me, and partly from knowing Walter) when I got back that evening. She made me her tomato soup with her homemade bread and didn’t question me about my father.

It was some time after that I was attacked. At least, that was what my gran referred to it as. I am not entirely sure what had happened, even years later. That’s not to say I don’t remember – oh, how I remember – but my comprehension of what occurred will most likely never be clear. I was sixteen, and too confident and comfortable.

The wind whipped at my face, and I had a brief moment of panic where I thought I felt my eyeballs freezing. I blinked rapidly, and tried to duck farther into my thin scarf to hide my face from the chill. I laughed quietly at myself as I ducked behind the alley of the hard ware store to cut across to the grocery. My eyes could not freeze unless I was at the top of the globe, for sure. I shivered, still though, and cursed myself for not getting to Mr. Tao’s place earlier. Walter and gran had gone on a romantic evening (not something I was too curious about) and to pass the time, I had told her I would be going to pick up groceries. What I thought would be simply chapters of a book I was reading turned out to be the whole book and before I knew it, my stomach was growling and it was dark and cold.

Still, a promise is a promise, and I set out in the chill to do what I had said.

The bustling sounds of the city were broken by a large gush of wind behind me, and the next thing I felt was severe pain as I toppled over onto the ground. The impact left me breathless, and my back felt like it was alive with fire. My arms, splayed awkwardly, tried to push myself into a better position, but the pain had, instead, forced a sob from my throat.

A hand appeared out of nowhere and gingerly – how odd I briefly thought – turned me onto my back. Another sob broke through my lips as the ground came in contact with my shoulder. What had I done? And why was it burning? My vision, blurry with tears and my mind, faltering with the pain, briefly registered the figure before me. It was dark, and much larger than me. I had a brief moment of panic as black eyes flashed behind a hood, some weapon glinting at its side before a loud noise broke its attention. Another flash of black eyes and it was gone.

I was found, apparently, sometime later by Mrs. Kellen, the hardware store owner as she was putting out the garbage. My gran forced me to talk to the police, but I told them the truth – I had not seen any distinguishing features. I had lied about the eyes by omitting the fact. I doubt even my gran would believe me had I told her something so inhuman. The pain on my back was from some type of blade – the police reasoned it was an axe that the attacker had swung and before it could strike me – perhaps lost their force or concentration and therefore the impact had not been as great as it could have been. I was still left with a nasty scar on my back. Sometimes the pains flare up again, but I feel as though it’s my imagination.

When I was eighteen, my gran died. It was not necessarily sudden. She had been sick for some time, but it still devastated me. Had Walter not been in love with my gran, I am sure I would have died months after her death. I locked myself in my apartment and would have most likely perished had it not been for Walter making sure I ate and sometimes getting the kindly old neighbor to make sure I had at least bathed occasionally.

Walter allowed me to stay in the apartment above his business, and in exchange it became some type of warehouse for his things. I didn’t mind – it seemed a lot cozier now that it was empty of human life except my own. Time was long for the next few years – I finally got myself up (with the help of Walter and the neighborhood) and got a job at the local library. It was just enough to get me by, and just enough where I did not have to socially interact with a magnitude of people.

I got myself a cat last year – a small calico kitten I named Duncan. It was definitely a turning point in my life, the confidence I felt in myself to be able to care for another living being – even if it was only a cat.

I do fear that Walter will eventually need his area about his shop, and that the library will close or sometimes, in the dark of night in my nightmares I fear that attacker coming for me yet again. But those, to me, are fears of life. Although I feel like I am drowning on frequent occasions, I want to keep a positive outlook on life.

Perhaps good things are in store for me in the future."

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AH, AND WHO IS THIS AMAZING MASTERMIND BEHIND THE LIKES OF YOU?

"my name is margaret! i'm 19 years old and i found this site on caution. i live in the eastern time zone, i dont have any other characters. but i go to a fantastic southern college and a random fact is that i really hate socks."

“Duncan, get down!” Margaret whispered yelled as the cat peered over the edge of the bike basket. She let out an aggravated noise as she gingerly pushed the cat’s head down, away from the edge. It was a busy Saturday and Margaret wasn’t incredibly happy to be biking across the city in the height of activity, no less with her hectic cat in the basket. The bike, borrowed from the neighbor’s kid years ago, was old enough to make Maggie feel uncomfortable when she rode it alone, and somewhere near paranoid with Duncan rode with her.

But there was no other way to book across the city in time for her shift at the library. She had woken up late – and by the tangled sheets and her sweaty body, she had had a rather tough night. The nightmares had been starting up again, and although Maggie wanted to explore why, she had no time. Duncan had been hard to catch this morning and her hair was still wet as it whipped around her as she dove through a back alley in a desperate short cut. Duncan, unfortunately, was forbidden from staying home when she was at work. Not only because she was gone for hours at a time and generally felt bad for the cat, but he somehow kept getting out and Mrs. Parkinson in the next building over would complain that he hung around her birds too much for her liking.

Thus, the poor cat was forced to come with her to work. Thankfully, the library was cozy enough and so unpopular that he never caused quite a nuisance, but Maggie still felt bad about the whole ordeal. The library, thankfully, came into view and she came to a screeching halt in front. Duncan attempted to get out again, but she pushed him a little more forcefully into the basket as she juggled the keys.

“Hello Mr. Franklin,” she said pleasantly, though refusing to look up as she unlocked the door and hauled her bike into the small store. Mr. Franklin was a regular, though a bit creepy, who was always waiting for her shift to beginning. She always felt slightly uncomfortable with him around, but she knew that the cameras were up to date and he usually left after an hour or two.

Maggie sighed, rather heavily, as she left Duncan gingerly down from the basket and started to boot up the ancient computer. Perhaps the weather would be better this evening and a nice walk in the park would be a pleasant idea.

[JURATE]